


blood on the bathroom floor

by canisspiritus (renardroi)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Blood, Domestic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renardroi/pseuds/canisspiritus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long has he been in here? Twenty-five minutes now? The muffled sounds of Parvis walking can be heard, interspersed with the sound of the fridge door opening, the sound of him falling gracelessly onto the couch like he usually does, and then getting back up. It was strange, how quiet it seemed. The bathroom was almost silent in comparison to Parvis, but it felt loud, filled to the brim with the tension in Strife’s arms and chest as he fretted over how to get his hand to clot or how to not look like a fucking idiot in front of Parv – like he would if Parv finally noticed he’d been sitting in the bathroom for ages.</p><p>((Injuries not Parv-induced, and most are not self-induced, implied off-screen fighting))</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood on the bathroom floor

Strife runs a finger across his jaw, lightly, gingerly, trying not to disturb the bruised flesh just starting to turn a pretty shade of purple. The way the discoloration spreads, purple with flecks of pink and red that almost make the bruise look like it should be rough or bumpy. He keeps touching it to make sure, leaning closer to the mirror as his fingers brush against the bruise, hesitant the first time and then more confident the second and third.

Of course, being intimate with the mirror over the sink while he touches his hand to his face means he’s getting a good look at the split knuckles he has. It hurts like hell to bend his fingers – or even to straighten them – since it stretches and folds the skin in painful ways, but he can’t stop feeling his face, looking for more invisible bruises or tiny cuts he can’t see. And it’s not helping the bleeding, his impatience and concern. His hands have been slowly bleeding into the bathroom sink going on twenty minutes now, but his roommate had come home in the middle of this.

And he’d left the bandages under his bed.

Strife sighs, and sits himself down on the toilet, careful not to drip blood on the seat cover. With his makeup, bandages, and most importantly the Neosporin in a neat bag shoved under his bed, there’s not much he can do without risking revealing his face to his roommate.  He dabs idly at the seeping blood with a balled up bit of toilet paper, trying to remember if Parv has band practice today or if it’s on Thursdays. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll catch a break for once and Parv will leave, or he’ll fuck off to his room and shut the door – but he never does. He sits on the couch and plays guitar and watches TV.

How long has he been in here? Twenty-five minutes now? The muffled sounds of Parvis walking can be heard, interspersed with the sound of the fridge door opening, the sound of him falling gracelessly onto the couch like he usually does, and then getting back up. It was strange, how quiet it seemed. The bathroom was almost silent in comparison to Parvis, but it felt loud, filled to the brim with the tension in Strife’s arms and chest as he fretted over how to get his hand to clot or how to not look like a fucking idiot in front of Parv – like he would if Parv finally noticed he’d been sitting in the bathroom for ages.

Did Parvis even know he was home? Had he noticed the shut bathroom door? More importantly, had he noticed the backpack and the laptop next to the coffee table?

The anxiety is punctuated by silence from the rest of the house. Wait, where was Parv? Had he gone into his room? If he’d shut the door it might be safe to sneak off to his own room, but Will hadn’t been paying attention as well as he should have. Crap.

The door handle on the bathroom turns suddenly, stopped short by the lock, the loose and old parts jostling together in a startlingly loud sound. Strife jumps, and then freezes in fear. Fuck.

“Strife?” Parvis calls, his voice strangely soft. Was it concern? Or confusion? He can’t tell.

“Uh?’ Will says smartly, not sure how to reply as he tosses the bloody toilet paper clumsily into the trash. At least in the panic of hiding from his roommate he’d thought to lock the door.

“Open up.” He sounds louder, much more confident, and there’s a definite shade of annoyance in his voice.

He feels like a teenager, bashfully standing up and unlocking the door, but refusing to actually open it; while Parvis fills the role of angry parent, pushing the door open and looking Strife up and down critically. Not fair, Will thinks idly, he’s supposed to be an adult now. But here he is, waiting for Parv to finish taking in the bruises and cuts, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.

Instead, Parv puts the small bag on the counter, frowning something awful. “You left this in your room.”

Strife carefully threads his fingers together, avoiding eye contact and the rub of his finger pads against the cracked and bleeding knuckles. Strange how their roles seemed to have reversed in this. How many times had Strife loudly and obnoxiously complained and bossed Parvis around after finding the apartment messy or expired food in the fridge or half naked couples making out on his bed? Yet now, when Parv has the opportunity, why hasn’t he returned the favor?

“Sit down. You’re getting blood on the tiles.”

While he anxiously sits again, Parvis rummages through the bag, picking out alcohol wipes and the small tube of Neosporin. Parv turns towards him, carefully tearing open the wipes with his teeth and crowding close to Will. Their knees bump together awkwardly.

“So…” Parv carefully grips Will’s chin, tilting his head up to get a better look at the cuts and bruises. “Did you finally beat up the other intern or did you fall down the stairs?”

Strife refuses to reply, chewing furiously on his bottom lip as the alcohol cleans the cuts under his eye. He glances up at Parvis to find him squinting, whether out of concentration or some other emotion, he can’t be sure. Instinct tells him he’s being difficult, being a nuisance, a burden, but any complaints that Parvis has laid against him have seemed...playful and good natured. He still worries though, that they hadn’t been.

“Stop,” Parvis says firmly, pulling Will’s lower lip out with his thumb. “You’ve already got it bleeding again.”

“Oh.” He thought it was just sore, not open and bleeding.

Parv dabs at his lip too, trying to clean it up, and Strife wonders if his lips are as chapped as they feel - and wonders if Parvis notices since he’s so close. Maybe he should drink more water. Maybe he shouldn’t get his ass kicked. Maybe he shouldn’t be a low life and shit son and a shit roommate.

“I’m not putting a band-aid on your mouth, lemme see your hand.” But he doesn’t wait until he’s finished talking, grabbing Will’s wrist and pulling his hand up to chest height. He sighs, and reaches for fresh wipe, cleaning up the blood. It stings much more than anything on Strife’s face had, and turns his knuckles numb for a small moment.

“You’re using the wrong concealer.” Parv mutters.

“Huh?”

“You’re using the wrong concealer. On your bruises?” He explains as he tosses the used alcohol wipes in the trash. He wipes his hand on his pants and then picks out the small thing of concealer in the bag, showing it to him. “It’s a color wheel. You’re supposed to use the ones opposite from your bruises.”

He points at one of them, while Strife looks confused. “Green for red, yellow for purple and blue. You can’t use green for everything.”

Parvis tosses the makeup back in the bag and picks up the neosporin and bandages while Strife blushes and frowns. How long has Parv known then? A while? Have other people noticed? God, he was an idiot.

“Um,” Parv says, holding the bandage out, “I don’t exactly know how I’m supposed to bandage your hand, but my granddad used to box, so I can wrap it like that - with the, uh, whatever this fluffy stuff is, in between.”

Strife shrugs and offers his hand to him again. Parvis takes it, eyes the wounds as he realizes they’re bleeding again, and then lazily starts to rub the neosporin into them. The dressing sticks easily with the help of the antibacterial cream, and Parv turns Will’s hand over to start bandaging, but hesitates when he sees the marks. They peek out from under Parv’s thumb where it rests against his pulse.

Shit he’d forgotten they were there.

After a moment of stilted silence Parv picks up where he left off, wrapping the ace around his thumb and wrist, and then his sore palm. As he criss-crosses the bandage around Will’s fingers, he clears his throat and asks, “Are you still on your parents’ insurance?”

“Ha, not since high school, no.” Strife says, trying to cover up his pained sighs with forced laughter.

“Do you have any? Or does your work offer any?”

“No. Not for interns.”

Parv finishes with his hand. It’s makeshift and pretty unprofessional, the end of the bandage tucked into itself since Strife seems to be missing the little metal thing that keeps it together. He steps back and crosses his arms, thinking for only a few seconds.

“I’ll put you on mine.” He says easily, like it’s just that clear cut and simple.

“What?” Will asks, incredulous, as he stands up, very much aware of the small amount of space available in the bathroom.

“I’ll put you on my insurance.” Parv repeats.

“Don’t you have to be - like family?”

He shrugs and starts to pack things away. “We’ll figure it out. Even if I have to marry you.”

 


End file.
